FROM fisher’s net, from fig-tree’s shade, | |
| God gathers whom He will; | |
| Touch’d by His grace, all men are made | |
| His purpose to fulfil. | |
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| But not alone from shady nooks, | 5 |
| Fresh with life’s noontide dew; | |
| From humble walks or quiet books, | |
| Calls He His chosen few. | |
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| Out of the busiest haunts of life, | |
| Its most engrossing cares, | 10 |
| Its nightly travail, daily strife, | |
| Self-woven golden snares— | |
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| He for His vineyard doth provide, | |
| His gentle voice doth move | |
| The world’s keen votaries to His side, | 15 |
| With Its persuasive love. | |
| |
| So Matthew left his golden gains, | |
| At the great Master’s call; | |
| His soul the love of Christ constrains | |
| Freely to give up all. | 20 |
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| The tide of life was at its flow, | |
| Rose higher day by day; | |
| But he a higher life would know | |
| Than that which round him lay. | |
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| Nor Fortune, bright with fav’ring smile, | 25 |
| Can tempt him with her store; | |
| Too long she did his heart beguile, | |
| He will be hers no more. | |
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| To one sweet Voice his soul doth list, | |
| And, at its “Follow Me,” | 30 |
| Apostle, and Evangelist | |
| Henceforth for Christ is he. | |
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| O Saviour! when prosperity | |
| Makes this world hard to leave, | |
| And all its pomps and vanity | 35 |
| Their meshes round us weave: | |
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| When Mammon with its subtle chain, | |
| Fair, because forged in gold, | |
| The soul, which up to Heaven would strain | |
| In captive thrall doth hold: | 40 |
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| When life with all its balmiest hours | |
| In sunshine round us lies; | |
| And bee-like, ’mid a thousand flowers | |
| Fond fickle fancy flies: | |
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| Oh grant us grace that to Thy call | 45 |
| We may obedient be; | |
| And, cheerfully forsaking all, | |
| May follow only Thee. | |
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